Ewan Macbeth
by Cececat
Summary: Ewan Macbeth is a rather ditzy Edinburgh drug dealer with an ambitious girlfriend. One day, after defeating a rival in a fight, he meets three homeless hippies who just might be magical. They tell him that, one day, he will replace his boss Duncan. Things only go downhill from there... [a 1980s retelling of Shakespeare's classic] (Please Read & Review!)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Much to my embarrassment I haven't completed a single story since June. Nothing seems to turn out right. All of my most recent ideas have been astoundingly stupid. Still, I feel like I should be working on something. So I've decided to start working on this old story.  
**

 **Originally it was going to be a _marvelous_ film in which I played Susan Gruoch (the Lady Macbeth character). Of course, that never happened. Even if I'd finished writing the script it still wouldn't have. Whenever I try to put together something with other people it always fails _spectacularly_.  
**

 **Anyway, to give myself something to do, I've decided to turn my play into prose. Hopefully people aren't too weirded out. I'd just finished reading _Trainspotting_ and _Skagboys_ when I started writing the script. That should explain _some_ things...**

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In the shadows behind an old pub, in a less-than-savory district of a dreary city, there sat three aging hippies of indeterminable gender. They had the decayed grace of peace loving Miss Havishams and the mystique of particularly rancid gypsy fortune tellers. Nobody knew their true origin. Few even knew of their existence…

The tallest, most striking of the three was a dark, Jamaican-looking being with waist-length grey dreadlocks and misty blind eyes. It always wore the same moldy, grimy woollen dress with an impressive collection of football scarves draped over it. The scarves' various colors weren't significant. None of the hippies supported any specific team any more than they supported any specific religion or political party. They were neutral in all fights - looking out for themselves and nobody else.

To the right of the dark, blind one was a frail, pale person in an oversized brownish trench coat that only made them seem thinner. Its hairless head resembled a skull leering through the gloom. It wore a rather interesting necklace fashioned from a set of plastic teeth, once displayed in a dentist's office as a sort of twisted decoration. By the time our story begins the fake teeth were yellowed from lack of washing, though in far better condition than the nasty chunks of 'real' teeth protruding from the hippie's grinning mouth.

On the blind hippie's right sat a rather fat hippie. It had three long, shiny, black braids on each side of its round head. The beast's chubby face was a sort of sullen shade of olive, its eyes a boring brown. Its clothes seemed to be made solely of ugly Native American rugs sewn together in the most unbecoming way imaginable. Even its shoes - well, scraps of colorful material tied around sweaty, swollen feet and gnarly toes - looked like they'd been made of Native's rugs, or perhaps faded friendship bracelets.

All in all, the Three Hippies about as surreally disturbing as a David Lynch film.

The one with the disconcerting necklace had lit a pile of crisp packets on fire at some point. The remains of it still sizzled ominously. They lit such a fire at the start of every meeting, and began their little 'ending ceremony' as soon as it died. Too often they ran out of things to seriously discuss long before this happened.

When it finally had fizzled out completely, the blind one (the leader) said to his fellows:  
"When shall we meet again, sisters?"

"When the battle's lost and won," replied the one with the freaky teeth.

"When the fight's finished, you mean?" asked the fat one, raising a hair eyebrow.

"Well, yes," said Teeth Hippie.  
"Why can't you just say it like that, eh?"

The one with the dreadlocks sighed dramatically. Why did those two always have to fight? Weren't they all supposed to be a team? Unsure what else to do, it said: "So… girls, where shall we next meet?"

"Here, obviously. Where else?" the Fat Hippie replied, with the air of an arrogant teenager.

An awkward silence ensued, as everyone thought about the Fat Hippie's words.

At that point even the Dreadlock Hippie realized how silly some of the traditional ceremony dialogues were. Of course, it wouldn't ever admit such a thing aloud. As the leader of the coven it had to stand up for tradition and make sure things ran as they'd always. Luckily for the Three Hippies, the Dreadlock Hippie sure knew what it was doing. It'd over a century of practice.

Not long ago the previous third member of the Three Hippies had died in a bar fight in the ghetto of the Underworld. Given that it was nearly witching season (aka Autumn) the Dreadlock Hippie had grabbed the first substitute available. This happened to be the rather modern Fat Hippie. Some who needed replacing as soon as-

All that could be contemplated later, decided the Dreadlock Hippie. Right now it needed to end this meeting.

"It's time for me to feed my dog," it said, solemnly.

The Teeth Hippie let out a suitably disconcerting cackle. "Spot calleth me!"

Spot was its beloved pet bunny, which it cared for dearly. The Dreadlock Hippie secretly believed that all the love found in the Teeth Hippie's shriveled heart was directed at Spot. The fluffy wee thing got far too much attention and had never been physically abused, like most things that encountered the Teeth Hippie.

"Time for our ending words," said the Dreadlock Hippie, feeling a bit like a schoolteacher patiently prompting a dim-witted student.

"Fair is foul and foul is fair! Hover through the foggy and filthy air!" the three cried.

"Why do we always say that? I can't hover, can y-

"Stuff it, you brainless twat!" hissed the Teeth Hippie, necklace blowing delicately in the wind.

The Fat hippie lunged at the Teeth Hippie. Luckily, the Teeth Hippie was able to duck in time.

" _Girls_!" the Dreadlock Hippie said fiercely. "We're supposed to be allies, not enemies. Stop your bickering!"

Still glaring at the Teeth Hippie, the Fat Hippie slowly moved away.

"Well? Doesn't you bunny need you, hon?" said the Dreadlock hippie.

Then, something rather peculiar happened. Starting with its repulsively long toenails, the Teeth Hippie began to... well, fade. Away went its feet and its bony ankles and its trouser-clad legs and its trenchcoat and its wiry shoulders and his turkey-like neck and its square chin and, eventually, the very top of its yellowy head.

Soon enough the Fat Hippie did the very same thing. The Dreadlock Hippie, on the other hand, waited there behind the pub. It had work to do.

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	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: ...and here's chapter 2! I've begun using a bit of (allegedly?) Scottish slang in the dialogue. It's all from those awful Irvine Welsh books I read. The accents will be getting a lot thicker in the _third_ chapter, by the way... though I'm sure you'll be able to figure out what they're all saying.  
**

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 _Meanwhile_ …

Mere moments after the witches faded away, a tall lad of about sixteen entered the pub through the backdoor. With slightly overgrown red, curly hair and milk-white skin he looked quite Scottish indeed. The poor child also looked like an impoverished nerd due to his manner of dress. He wore an extremely square pair of glasses, a decades-old dress dress shirt, grey trousers that were clearly meant for someone a foot shorter, and a pair of oxfords the color of shit.

His name was Malcolm, and he was the only son of the most dangerous criminal in the city.

Like many teens, he found his father (John 'King' Duncan) rather embarrassing. He'd begun seeing one of the lesser dealers, Ewan Macbeth, as something of a replacement role model. Macbeth was only about twenty - young enough to be cool, old enough to be admirable. He was a bit of a ditz, though very brave. He also happened to be Duncan's most trusted underling. Due to his strange innocence, Macbeth was astoundingly loyal. He was the only person that knew who Duncan bought his drugs from. Even young Malcolm hadn't been told...

After entering the pub Malcolm made a beeline for the most crowded table. There sat his father and three dealers There were the ones Malcolm mentally referred to as Edward Macduff the Wise, Alfred Lennox the Elderly, and Jamie Ross the Chill. After Macbeth, they were Duncan's most trusted allies.

The four men were in the middle of a hushed, serious conversation when Malcolm approached to table. So he made a weird sort of coughing noise. This didn't work. Next he tried a noisy fake sneeze. Again, they didn't notice him.

"Hello!" he said, rather loudly.

Suddenly, the entire pub was silent. As a result poor Malcolm's white face turned a vibrant radish-red. At least he'd caught his father's attention. Between his white hair, his carefully clipped beard, and regal expression Duncan sure looked kingly...

The old man smiled vaguely at his son, then asked: "How did things go?"

"Fantastically. We won, Dad!" Malcolm replied, his voice filled with false cheer. Not that his father noticed.

"Good… good…"

"Macbeth did most of the work, ken. Him and his friend Banquo really made a mess of the enemy with their blades," the boy replied.

"And did they kill our enemy Macdonald?" Lennox asked.

At this, young Malcolm nodded vigorously. "Yeah. Macbeth cut his throat wi' a switchblade. Bled all over the grass an' all."

Now, old Lennox looked worried. "Do you think the police will notice? If there's blood all-"

"It'll be fine." Duncan chuckled, then turned towards his son. "Sit, my boy, sit… Lennox here will get you a drink, it's time for him to buy another round anyway."

Taking the hint, Lennox wandered off to buy more drinks. After hesitating for a moment Malcolm sat down beside his father. The chair was painfully hard and made of some sort of wood. He squirmed awkwardly in it, even more uncomfortable than unusual. How he despised pubs… between the awful furniture and all of those people...

"Macbeth fought bravely, you said?" Duncan muttered thoughtfully.

"Yes," replied Malcolm.

"Do you think he deserves a bit more territory?"

"What?"

The old man sighed wearily. "When I first came to power I divided this fine city into sections. Each of my best dealers - Macduff, Macdonald, Lennox, Ross, and Macbeth - were given a section to deal in, to rule, to protect from the pigs. Macbeth seems capable of handling a fight and commanding a small army. Not to mention how well he's always done, dealing my special Scottish heroin…"

Malcolm frowned slightly. "So you're giving him Macdonald's space?"

Duncan nodded solemnly. "I'm thinking about it. I'm also contemplating letting him inherit my little kingdom, if I'm to die anytime soon."

"Shouldn't I get your 'kingdom'?" Though Macbeth probably deserved it on some level, thought Malcolm, crowns were supposed to be passed from father to son. Also, giving someone like Macbeth real power didn't even make sense. He needed a leader of some kind to function. Why didn't Malcolm's father understand?

"You will, perhaps, if I live at least than 10 more years. I'm starting to fear that one of my men in plotting against me. If I die without naming a worthy heir there shall be chaos."

Before Malcolm could reply, Lennox returned. with drink. Two other dealers - Ross and Macduff - followed right behind him. Malcolm cowered anxiously.

"I found them waiting by the bar, sir," Lennox said with slight bow.

Ross grinned sloppily. "Hullo!"

"Have you heard the news?" Duncan asked, his pale blue eyes gleaming.

"Which news?" Macduff whispered, raising a sleek black eyebrow.

"The outcome of the fight."

"Yeah. We won, didn't we?" Ross said happily.

With great pride Duncan nodded. "Indeed we did. Macbeth brought us victory, the traitor Macdonald died, and none of our side got arrested."

"Will you reward him for his bravery?"

"Macbeth?" Duncan chuckled. "Well, I've decided to give him the territory once belonging to Macdonald."

Macduff bowed his head. "Both a blessing and a curse, poor man."

"Let us dddrrrrrrink to him!" slurred Ross.

Together, they all cried: "To Macbeth!"

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	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Here's chapter three - right on schedule! This one's got a fair bit of Scottish slang (stolen most lovingly from _Trainspotting_ ). Also, there are a few _Macbeth_ in-jokes... if that's even the right word. You'll see.  
**

 **Also... the criminal characters act like nobility because they think they're more important than they actually are. On some level, they all believe themselves to be modern thanes. It's quite silly.**

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Hardly three hours after their fantastical disappearance, the three hippies returned to the alley behind the pub.

"How have you been, sisters?" asked the Dreadlock Hippie.

"Bored, to be honest," replied the Fat Hippie, quickly adding: "I did steal some candy from a child, though."

Not to be outdone, the Teeth Hippie hissed: "I hath taken a from a sailors wife some chestnuts. Old crone, she calleth me, give me back the chestnuts."

"Did you?" asked the Fat Hippie.

"No."

The Dreadlock Hippie sighed dramatically. "Lovely. Now, Macbeth shall be here soon."

"And…?" quoth the Fat Hippie.

Again, the Dreadlock Hippie sighed. "We've much to tell him.

Not a half mile away, two young men ambled down the alley towards the pub. They were both cleanshaven, casual, tired-eyed, and as thin as girls. These were the type of men who'd joined football gangs as children. Men who knew how to fight, yet had an air of pettiness to them. They listened to the Clash, yet didn't understand the politics. They were ordinary - if mildly moronic - blokes.

Their names were Ewan Macbeth and Dave Banquo.

The former always claimed that he looked like Paul Weller. Indeed, he sort of did… just like 75% of men from the UK. His thin, inky black hair was straight and barely long enough to cover his ears, and his eyes were an oddly murky shade of blue. Unlike Weller, he wasn't at all Mod. He usually wore beat-up jeans, sneakers, band t-shirts, and a black leather jacket he'd inherited from a mate. As a result he looked more like a weird rocker. Or, perhaps, a 'mocker' (to quote the great and glorious Ringo Starr).

The latter had a sort of 'budget punk' look. He'd the spiked hair, motorcycle boots, and a fine collection of offensive shirts - including the 'tits shirt', which was a t-shirt with a photo of some girl's breasts on it. He also wore safety pins the way some people wear earrings. Then there was the alleged tattoo he'd given himself at age sixteen. He'd carved the phrase "lust for life" into his left forearm with a pocket knife, then covered the wound with coal dust. This resulted in a painful and hideous infection. Years later a rather gruesome scar still remained. It wasn't attractive. Even worse, it made it harder for him to find a good vein with all that scarring in the way. As a result his hands were covered with track marks.

Happy as a pair of Dickensian pickpockets, the two young men waltzed there way down the alley - never noticing the trio of hippies. Soon enough they stood in front of door.

"So, why are we enterin' the back way?" Dave asked, turning towards his friend.

Macbeth shrugged. "They're aw really proud of me, man. It's really awkward n' Ah dinnae want people makin' a big fuss."

"Hey, yer the reason we won," Dave pointed out.

"Ah wudnae huv been able tae do it withoot ye!"

"Ah coulnae have done it withoot you if Ah wis in yer situation. We belong together - wir a team, ma laddie."

"Ah luv ye, too..."

Then, there was an extremely awkward silence. The two men stared at each other in horror.

"Wir startin' tae sound like queers, whae wi' aw thi' lovey-dovey stuff," Dave said with an almost-chuckle.

"Aye. The part where ye sais 'why are we enterin' the back way' sounded bad, too."

"Ah hadnae noticed thit, likesay…"

Macbeth's white skin turned tomato red. "Sorry."

Before Dave Banquo could reply, the three hippies revealed themselves.

"Hail Macbeth!" they cried.

Poor Macbeth jumped, then muttered: "Shite. Ah dinnae even ken these men!"

"Are the' men?" his friend whispered back.

" _Hail Macbeth, Dealer of Glamis! Hail Macbeth, Dealer of Cawdor! Hail Macbeth, King!_ "

"At least they likes ye, man."

"Whae are you?" Macbeth asked, staring fearfully at the hippies.

 _"Hail Banquo! Father of Kings!_ "

Dave grinned boyishly. "The' like me, too!

 _"Hail! Hail! Hail to Both!"_

"Please, explain whae ye mean! Ah am the Dealer of Glamis, aye - but Ah dinnae ever go near Cawdor. That's Macdonald's territory."

"It was. Ye defeated him, Macbeth. It may be yers now," Dave pointed out.

Then, without warning, the three prophetic hippies faded away.

"They'v goin' away... "

Banquo: Aye. We both need a drink. Actually, many drinks. C'moan.

Macbeth: Did they say Ah'm goin' tae be king? They did. Dealer ay Glamis, dealer ay Cawdor…

Banquo: C'moan.

And so, he led Macbeth into the pub. Right away far too many people spotted them. Lennox rushed over, then bowed.

"Shite," Macbeth hissed.

"The King has received news of your success, Ewan Macbeth. He'd like you to sit beside him now," Lennox declared.

The two young men all but dragged to a table... Duncan's table, to be more specific. They sat down sheepishly, both feeling like guilty schoolboys. After bowing (again!) Lennox went to buy another round of drinks.

"And there he is! How good it is to see you. My son tells me trails of Macdonald's blood were left in the grass of the park," Duncan cried, beaming.

"Malcolm was right, Ah guess." Macbeth chuckled nervously. "He's a fine lad, a fine wee fighter."

Duncan smiled vaguely. "Say thank you, Malcolm."

"Thank you."

Then, Duncan turned to Macbeth. "Because of your bravery, Macbeth, I've decided to award you the territory of the dreadful traitor you defeated."

The young man's eyes widened. "So they wir right!"

At this, Macduff raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"Nobody." Dave replied. "The lad's tired, that's aw. Right, Macbeth?"

"Ah should tell Susan aboot this. She's ma girlfriend, Ah've goat tae tell her stuff," Macbeth said, dazed.

He then began to stand up - though Dave stopped him, softly saying: "You can tell her later. C'mon, man, just relax for a wee while."

Macduff stood up. "I'll go tell her."

Nobody bothered to comment so, without further ado, Macduff left. After a bit of awkward silence Duncan, Malcolm, Lennox, and Ross start talking about something very important - probably football. Now, Dave Banquo and Ewan Macbeth were free to whisper between themselves.

"Ah cannae believe those hippies wir right. It's weird, man," Macbeth muttered solemnly.

Dave shrugged. "They probably overheard Duncan talkin'."

"Why did they call me king? That's really botherin' me, ken? There's only one king around here... and it's Malcolm, nae me, who'll be replacin' him when he's dead."

At this, Dave laughed. "If he ever dies."

"He will one day. Most people dae."

"He doesnae seem like th' type who ever will. Can ye picture life withoot him? It wudnae be right, man. It jist wudnae be right..."

"This is an awkward conversation to be havin' wi' him sitting right there..."

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	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: The phonetic spellings came from a few Irvine Welsh books I checked out from the library. Therefore, if they make no sense, it's only partially my fault.**

 **The bit about Susie (Lady Macbeth) cooking drugs in a modified tin can instead of a spoon is supposed to imply that she's smart (in a way). Something annoyed her so she invented a solution. It's really obvious, though I suspect most people are too lazy to do that... or they aren't really clumsy. Knocking over a spoon of half-melted drugs is really awkward. You know what's even worse? Forgetting the filter and, then, trying to get the bits of half-dissolved debris out of the hypodermic without wasting too much.  
**

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Back at Macbeth's flat, his girlfriend Susie was lounging in the tiny living room reading an aging copy of _The Fellowship of the Ring_.

Once upon a time she'd been beautiful. In high school her hair had been to be a beautiful shade of reddish-brown, her skin fair and smooth, her eyes a brilliant and rare green, her figure slim and delicate. Now she was a shell. Her hair never lost it's lovely color, though she didn't wash it very often. That lovely, porcelain complexion now looked greyish at times. The striking green eyes were often spacey and empty. Though she was indeed slender and delicate, her ribs were more pronounced and her stomach was bloated. There were small burns on her fingers from matches.

Her wardrobe was timelessly elegant, which made her look more 'lovely consumptive heroine' than 'druggie next door'. She always wore stockings. Though many of the blouses and skirts were stained - sometimes with something that might've been blood - she still looked pretty, in a sorry way. There was an odd sort of regalness to her - one might mistake her for a long-lost princess in hiding. Of course, that didn't stop her from speaking with an atrociously local accent.

As she sat there, wearily reading the familiar text, she heard a knock at the door.

"Ewan? Honey?" she called.

"It is I, Macduff," replied a familiar, if somewhat unwelcome, voice.

Rolling her eyes, Susie got up and opened the door. There stood MacDuff. There was a look of great despair on his thin, serious face. Susie was horrified. Had her beloved died?

"Whae's wrong? Is ma Ewan awright?" she asked.

"It depends on how you look at things, Susan. He defeated Macdonald and was swiftly awarded the man's territory. Now he's got both twice the power and twice the responsibility."

"That's wonderful!" Susie cried, smiling brightly.

"Is it, Susan?" Macduff replied ominously. "Is it?"

Before she could reply he scurried away like a fiendish rat. She went back to her book, briefly. Though she was a bit nervous after that encounter with Macduff. Something was rotten in the city of Edinburgh. Being the sort of person she was, Susie decided it was time for another dose. One of the perks of having a drug dealer boyfriend was the near-endless supply of drugs lying around. There was a sort of security in it. A junkie's greatest fear is that he won't be able to score his next fix. As long as there are drugs, there is comfort and warmth. It's a simple life. Too simple, Susan often thought. She knew that there was more to the world than this. If only there was a way out… if only someone actually needed her for something.

Of course, dear Ewan needed her. Though that was different. She just had to be there for moral support. That hardly took any energy.

Humming an old Velvet Underground song to herself, Susan retrieved a bag of white powder from the cabinet. It was what Duncan called his 'special Scottish heroin. According to rumor he got it from a nearby factory that manufactured medical-grade diamorphine. Nobody knew who his source was… well, save for Ewan Macbeth. He knew all kinds of secrets.

After assembling the rest of her supplies Susan turned on the old gas stove. She then attached an (almost?) clean ¾-inch hypodermic to her syringe. Then she used that to measure out a bit of water. That was deposited into a small metal thing Susie had made months ago. After knocking over her spoon one too many times she's made her own cooker out of a modified tin can. It worked just as well.

She sprinkled a bit of powder in with the water, carefully holding her cooker over the bright blue flames. As she did did this, someone unlocked the

"Susie?"

"Ah'm in th' kitchen!" she shouted, stirring the mixture with the needle.

Macbeth entered the kitchen, looking tired and somewhat dazed.

"Any ay that fae me?" he joked.

She glared at him teasingly. "Yer clean n' staying thae way."

"Yer a funny burd, ye ur."

There was a pause. Then, Susie said: "Ah heard aboot yer promotion."

"Ye didnae hear aw ay it."

"Whae dae ye mean?"

"Ah met three… persons."

"At th' pub?"

"Oan the way tae the pub. They wir hippies, Ah guess. Homeless."

"That's nae so odd."

"I guess nae." He furrowed his brow as if still confused by the whole thing. "They spoke tae me."

"Askin' for money?"

"Naw, they wirnae beggars. They teld me Ah'd be Dealer ay Cawdor-"

"Ye are," Susan said, sticking the needle into a particularly prominent vein on her wrist. She pressed the plunger in, then shakily removed the needle. It was funny, how you could feel it in you… feel it getting to your brain. There was a sudden sensation of pure and flawless joy.

"Now Ah am - Ah wasnae then. They also sais Ah'll be King," Macbeth said, though Susie only half-heard him.

Susan blinked, slightly dazed. "King? You'll replace Duncan?"

"Event'lly. Remember, he introduced me tae oar supplier. Nawbody else kens where we git the stuff."

"Why no' now?" Susan muttered, setting the needle and syringe on the counter.

"Whae?"

Now, Susie was smiling a rather mad smile. "We could oaff him now, likesay. If ye already ken-"

Macbeth: We cannae kill him.

"Why nae?"

"Ye cannae go around killin' people."

"Sais who?" She laughed, nearly. "Ye jist killt Macdonald."

"In a fight. Anyway, Duncan's different."

"He isnae. Think aboot it, Ewan, think aboot it."

Ewan Macbeth fled the room. How could she say such things? Sure, she wasn't sober… though even high people aren't supposed to think like that. Killing an enemy - a traitor - was one thing. Betraying the boss was far more serious. That would be wrong on so many levels. Duncan trusted Macbeth he really did. Betraying the trust of a mentor, a father-figure… even young Macbeth knew that this was wrong.

Still, the Hippies had said that he would be replace Duncan. If they weren't a weird hallucination - which the couldn't have been, given that DAve Banquo saw them too - they had to be witches. Like the spirits that Ewan's mother had spoken of. Those monsters that haunted the countryside. Perhaps they could visit cities too, thought Macbeth. Perhaps they were right… perhaps Susie was right. If he was destined to replace Duncan why not do so right away?

Why not…?

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	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: No reviews, still? I suppose that's alright.**

 **The first half of this chapter is supposed to show Susie's devotion to Ewan. She plays the role of the housewife even though she'd probably stronger than he is. She _takes_ _care_ of him. From her POV that's her job. Though she dreams of excitement, she's convinced that being his girlfriend is what she's meant to do.  
**

 **Also... Susie doesn't use that weird accent in this chapter. This was partially because I'm lazy and I didn't bother writing it in. Anyway, the 'idiot' characters are the ones who talk like that. Everyone else speaks in RP. Perhaps she only speaks the alleged 'local dialect' when Ewan and his friends are around. I've yet to decide.**

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The next morning, circa. 6:30, Susie awoke feeling both cold and sweaty. For a few minutes she didn't move. Rather, she stayed curled up in a fetal position - trying in vain to keep warm. Even with Ewan lying beside her she couldn't help but shiver.  
Was it the lack of drugs or the cold weather? Susie wasn't sure. Did it even matter?  
After a moment Susan forced herself out of bed. Yawning, she threw a tattered blue bathrobe over her tacky, penguin-print flannel pajamas. Again, she yawned… then wandered wearily into the kitchen.  
She threw open the fridge. As usual, it was virtually empty. Though Susie hardly cared. Even if there had been something worth rating she wouldn't've eaten anything anyway. No, she was too nauseas. Drugs would be a better breakfast.  
So Susie got out some of the white powder, poured it onto the counter, and then snorted it. This was indeed the lazy way of doing things, though it still worked. Soon enough she felt all nice and calm and warm and everything made sense again. Despite the lack or rush and the less intense feeling, snorting skag wasn't too pathetic. It even made the high last longer.  
After standing there for a moment, blissfully leaning against the counter, Susie decided to go find some breakfast for Ewan. When it came to consuming atrociously greasy foods he was like a black hole. Well, sometimes. Occasionally he'd take amphetamines and barely eat for days. None of it was very healthy. Still, pointing this out would probably be somewhat hypocritical. And anything was better than letting him go back to using heroin on a daily basis. He needed to focus on his job. Unlike Susie, he couldn't do that when spaced out on smack.  
Dreamily, she wandered back into the small bedroom and began looking for something to wear. Soon enough she'd put together a lovely ensemble. The black pencil skirt and the striped grey-and-white blouse looked quite professional - especially when paired with a set of prim stockings. After combing her hair a bit and putting on a hat, Susie was just about ready.  
As she gathered together her purse and such, she glanced over at Ewan. He still seemed to be asleep. How sweet and harmless he looked, lying there like that.  
And so, she threw on his leather jacket and left the flat.

After leaving the building she walked down the street towards a small. It was a cheap little place that served full breakfasts all day long. Even the baked beans appeared to be fried, Still, Ewan loved it and it barely cost anything. Also, it stayed open 24 hours a day.  
The interior wasn't very sophisticated. Who ever designed it seemed more interested in practicality. There were a few mostly-empty red plastic tables and matching chairs the the right, a counter and the kitchen to the right. In the corner sat an old radio, shakily playing the latest David Bowie single.  
That familiar, fat, middle-aged cook grinned at Susie as she entered.  
"The usual?" he asked.  
"Yes. The usual."  
"To go?"  
"As always."  
She handed at the money. Then, he started cooking. Thick bacon, eggs, black pudding, bread, beans, hash browns, haggis, tomatoes… all fried. If Susie had been sober she would've been disgusted. Of course, being high, she could care less.

The sedated, dazed, 'I don't care'-ness that accompanied an opioid high fascinated Susie. Nothing outside her skull seemed to matter in the slightest. Yet books she'd read while high seemed so vivid in comparison - so meaningful. Middle-earth and wonderland seemed almost real at times. Perhaps this was because she thought about them as she read. These stories and people were in her mind, in her daydreams. Sometimes she wanted to be someone. A hero, like Frodo Baggins.

This wasn't possible - and Susie knew it. Heroes and villains only exist in stories. Real people were somewhere in between… somewhere on a spectrum. And it wasn't as if she had a grand cause to fight for. Her life revolved around the drugs and Ewan. Two simple, sensible things. She had a role and she played it as well as she could. As long as she kept up her habit and took care of Ewan she would be doing the 'correct' thing (which isn't the same as the 'right' thing). Though it bored her half to death at times, it was better than nothing.

She turned towards the cook. Apparently he'd finished frying Ewan's breakfast and boxed it up a while ago. Being as dazed as she was, Susie hadn't noticed.  
"Thank you," she said with a nice smile. Then, she left.

* * *

 **Please, please, _please_ review!  
**


End file.
